snake in the grass

 

 

 

 

 

was it too late
to reinvent
to shed her skin
and start again?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and rowed him softer home

 

 

 

 

the old birdhouse was stuffed with sticks and feathers
at first glance she thought it was a dried milkweed pod

how fragile
this baby wren

she gently cradled him in her hands
and placed him on a branch
where he had room to spread his tiny wings
and fly home

 

 

 

 

 

easing

 

 

 

 

something about foggy mornings
allows one to ease into the day
I walk a little slower

 

 

 

 

 

 

dichotomy

 

 

 

 

 

her days were a struggle between holding on and letting go

 

 

 

 

 

of a barnacle to a ledge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“My attachment to the state is that of a barnacle to a ledge, the pull of the moon to the earth. Maine, because of its singular and profound beauty, is a place of worship without walls. I love it so.”

~ May Davidson